A Woman Named Smith eBook

“I should have thought I was dreaming,”
went on Miss Emmeline, “save that there lingered
in the air, for some time, a faint and very delicate—­”

“Perfume,” I finished.

Miss Emmeline started, and seized my hand.

“Then you have experienced it, too?”

“I have detected the perfume,” I admitted,
“but I have never seen anything. Dear Miss
Emmeline, would it be too much to ask you to keep
this to yourself, for a while at least? People
are so easily frightened; and wild stories spread
and grow.”

Miss Emmeline nodded. “Of course I’ll
keep it quiet,” she promised kindly. “I
shall, however, write down the occurrence for the Society
for Psychical Research, without giving actual names
and place.” To this I raised no objection.
But it was with a troubled mind that I left Miss Emmeline.

I was destined to hear one more confidence that night,
unwittingly this time. I had gone down-stairs
to place, ready to Mary Magdalen’s hand in the
morning, the materials for the breakfast. This
entails work, but it insures successful handling of
household economics. Having weighed and measured
what was necessary, and seen that the inquisitive
Black family occupied their proper quarters on the
lower veranda, I went back up-stairs. The Author’s
door was slightly ajar, and I could hear him walking
up and down, as he does when he dictates; for he is
a restless man.

“Johnson,” The Author was saying as I
passed, my slippered feet making no sound, “Johnson,
that Sophy woman intrigues me. Hanged if she
doesn’t, Johnson!”

“I like Miss Smith, myself. She reminds
me very much of my mother,” said Johnson’s
cordial voice in reply.

“But I don’t like the way things look
here, at all, Johnson!” fumed The Author.
“What’s his game, anyhow? What’s
he after? What’s he here for? Does
she know, or suspect? Or doesn’t she, Johnson?”
The Author asked, earnestly. “Look here:
somebody’s got to protect that Sophy woman against
Nicholas Jelnik!”

CHAPTER XI

THE JINNEE INTERVENES

Just before he went back North, Luis Morenas good-naturedly
agreed to exhibit his new sketches for the delectation
of such folk as we cared to ask to view them—­this
to please Alicia, whom he called Flower o’ the
Peach.

Now an exhibit of Morenas sketches would have been
an art event in the Biggest City itself. But
think of it in Hyndsville, where few worth-while things
ever happened; and imagine the polite wire-pulling
for invitations that ensued!

It wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t ask
the whole town to come to my house to see those brilliant
sketches. I would have done so with all my heart,
but there was a section of Hyndsville I couldn’t
reach. It was locked up behind bars of pride
and prejudice of its own building; and losing by it,
of course, since one can’t be exclusive without
at the same time being excluded. To shut other
folks out you have first got to shut yourself in.